


New Methods

by SubspaceAlien



Series: Coping Techniques [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Masochism, Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2018-12-21 14:46:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11946489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SubspaceAlien/pseuds/SubspaceAlien
Summary: Sherlock and John make interesting progress.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick note: I want everyone who commented/left kudos on the first work in this series to know, you all are the only reason it's become a series. The first work was never intended to continue, it was a sort of an exploration of topics very personal to myself. All of the comments I received were so kind and encouraging, however, that I began to think about it, and now here we are.
> 
> Thank you all very much for your words, they meant more than I could have predicted. This series is for you.

It was late when John got home, maybe about 7:30 or so. He had picked up a shift at the hospital since one of the regular doctors was out of town. Every other day of the past week and a half, since John had walked in on Sherlock, the two of them would have already been halfway through their evening of watching the telly together. 

It was funny, the two men hadn’t addressed what had transpired between them, and yet there was nothing uncomfortable about that silence. In fact, they had been acting more comfortable with each other. The air was cleared, and that had been good enough for now. Every evening they had settled down in the living room together, sometimes in their own chairs with the fire going, and sometimes on the same couch with their thighs touching. One night, they had ended up under the same blanket. There was a happy, comfortable progression taking place, if very slowly. 

John had been taking a nightly walk alone after telly time, which helped to clear his head and also meant he was able to fall asleep sooner. And if it meant that when he came back home Sherlock was already in his own bedroom with the door closed, that was just a rather happy accident. There had been no opportunities for awkward moments of parting for the night, where one or both might have expressed interest in the night not ending yet. It was safer that way, for now. 

As John climbed out of the taxi and made his way to the flat, he felt the first stirrings of apprehension that he had left Sherlock for so long today, disrupting their routine. He had felt comfortable with the idea this morning, as over a week had passed without any troubling signs from Sherlock. Now John wasn’t so sure. It was probably nothing, honestly, just nerves. John was also very tired, the kind of tired that meant he had endured a long day of helping others. It was a good sort of tired. 

That brought a slight smile to John’s face as he made his way up the stairs. The muffled sound of the telly drifted down the stairs, reassuring John that Sherlock had stuck to the routine even without him, and that maybe Sherlock had been able to soothe himself with the familiar pattern of the day. As John rounded the corner into the living room, however, his face dropped just a bit as he realized that Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. 

“Sherlock?” John called out once, hesitantly. There was no response. Before he could panic, John rushed to calm himself. Honestly, Sherlock had always left the flat at all kinds of hours, for all kinds of reasons. If John got bothered by it every time Sherlock was suddenly gone, he’d never have a moment’s peace. Sherlock was probably chasing down some clue, most likely in a way that presented at least a bit of danger to his person. That started a low anger bubbling in John’s gut, and he made a mental note to talk to Sherlock in the future about keeping himself safer from here on out. Actively seeking danger was not too far from explicitly hurting oneself, making it unacceptable in John’s mind. 

John headed toward the bathroom, the door to which was hanging open and letting the light from the hallway illuminate the inside. There was a figure hunched over, sitting on the closed toilet seat. John’s heart raced as his body assumed a more crouched position, lowering his center of balance to better fight or run. He stared at the figure for a few heartbeats before being able to discern a mop of curly, dark hair, and pale limbs. 

“Sherlock?” John called again, softer this time, edging into the bathroom. He left the light off, his eyes having adjusted to the low light. Sherlock still didn’t respond. He was shirtless, vertebrae uncomfortably prominent from being slouched foreword over his own lap. One long, pale arm was braced at the elbow against his thigh to support his bowed head, and the other hung like dead weight away from his body. The hall light glinted off the razor blade in that hand. John’s stomach dropped, but he didn’t feel the same sick shock as last time. 

He slowly walked into the bathroom and crouched to the side of the toilet. From this angle, he could see that Sherlock’s pants were tugged down to reveal his hipbones. At that moment, Sherlock took a deep breath and straightened his posture just a bit, although his head stayed hung low. 

“I didn’t do it.” Sherlock’s voice was flat, but John knew him well enough to detect a hint of pride behind the controlled fear. For a moment John didn’t understand what he meant, but as realization dawned on him, hope sprung up before he could caution it. 

“You, ah, you didn’t hurt yourself?” John took a closer look at Sherlock’s hip and was relieved to see no new marks on the pale skin. “Sherlock,” he continued, “You’re ah, you’re holding it in your hand, still.” Sherlock stiffened a bit, and John couldn’t help but notice that his extended hand began to tremble a bit. “Sherlock, would you hand that to me?” 

Sherlock’s hand remained where it was as he responded in a small voice, “I don’t want to, John. I mean, I do, but…I’m so torn.” His voice wavered a bit as he added, “I need you to help me, please.” 

Moving slowly, John gently took the razor blade from Sherlock’s hand. There was just the barest hint of resistance on Sherlock’s part, for the most part remaining passive and still. “It’s ok, Sherlock, I understand. It’s ok to have conflicting feelings about this, alright?” John kept his voice gentle and even, not wanting to express any kind of reprimand. He stood up and placed the blade in the medicine cabinet behind the mirror. Even if he removed this one from Sherlock’s possession, John knew that he would easily be able to replace it at any store, and he wouldn’t insult Sherlock by pretending otherwise. Any progress made would be within Sherlock, not their surroundings. 

“Sherlock, I am so, so proud of you,” John murmured softly as he crouched in front of him. “I really am. You had plenty of opportunity to give in, and you didn’t. You did so well.” Taking Sherlock’s head gently between his hands, he turned the other man’s face up toward his own, resting his thumbs right under those prominent cheekbones and holding him in place. Once Sherlock’s eyes met his, John smiled softly for a moment, then hardened his expression just a bit into a mask of concerned command. 

“This is what’s going to happen, Sherlock. You’re going to pick one of the emotions that overwhelmed you today, and you’re going to walk me through what happened when you felt it.” Sherlock’s eyes widened, but he didn’t say anything. “I’ll be here, just listening. I want you to know that you can say anything to me, ok? Anything. I won’t run.” 

Sherlock dropped his eyes to the side, breaking their eye contact. He still didn’t say anything, but he was clearly uncomfortable with the situation he found himself in. John’s next words, however, caused Sherlock’s eyes to snap back up and fixate on the man crouched in front of him. 

“And when you’ve done that, I will hurt you.” 


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock took in a long, deep breath, then gave a soft sigh before closing his eyes. “I was frustrated today,” he began slowly, seeming to weigh his words more than usual. John noted with pride that Sherlock’s voice was only slightly guarded, and noticeably steadier than John would have expected under these circumstances. As silent praise and encouragement, he moved his hands up Sherlock’s head until he could gently massage his temples with his thumbs. The tiny circular movements seemed to ease some of the tightness in the detective’s brow as he continued. 

”I…I felt so stifled in the lab today. I even let the staff know what I’d be doing today, John, I made the effort to tell them so they would stay out of my way. They knew the importance of the evidence I was testing, and yet they interfered every step of the way!” Sherlock’s voice had risen in volume, and he briefly cleared his throat. “They wouldn’t just let me do my job. I needed to run those tests to wrap up this case, to help those people…”

Sherlock sighed again, sadder this time. “John, I thought I would be delivering news to clients today. Giving them closure, some justice. That’s what I do. I solve mysteries.” Some defensiveness had crept into his tone. “That’s what I’ve got to give, John, and I want to give it! I…Oh hell, I need to be able to give the people in this world something. Otherwise, what am I doing here?” 

A few moments passed in silence as John waited for more. Sherlock’s face seemed to show more surrender than busy thoughts, unlikely to offer any more information on his own. John decided that the explanation had been sufficient. Actually, considering how new Sherlock was to interpreting his own emotions, he had done quite well. John leaned in toward Sherlock, placing a warm kiss on his forehead. 

”Good,” he murmured as he rocked back on his heels, noting that Sherlock had opened his eyes again and was watching him. “Very good. Honestly Sherlock, that’s such progress you’ve made already.” John paused for a moment, an idea dawning on him: As a reward for solid progress, and as a sort of test, he offered, “How do you want me to hurt you?” Both men understood that if Sherlock didn’t ask for something reasonable, John would have to withdraw the choice and proceed however he saw fit. 

Something very like defiance flashed in Sherlock’s eyes at the prospect of a challenge, leaving behind an intent sort of heat. Wordlessly, he finally unfolded his body from itself and set to work unbuckling John’s belt. John had to briefly squeeze his eyes shut against the rush of blood to his groin, urgently instructing himself that now was not the time to get excited. Not yet. He felt the belt slide out from around his body and opened his eyes again in time to watch Sherlock take the belt from his trousers entirely, double it over on itself, and extend it back toward John. His eyes never left John’s face. Clearly, Sherlock felt that he had risen to the challenge, and was now issuing John a challenge in return. 

John felt a dangerous sort of grin try to spread over his face. It was the sort of manic look shared between boys who had just thought of something dangerous to do in the dog days of summer. Instead he schooled his face into an expression of confidence, one that said he expected any orders issued to be followed immediately. He took the proffered belt and took a long moment to adjust it in his grip (noticing but not acknowledging the way Sherlock’s eyes locked hungrily on that sight) before setting it against the underside of Sherlock’s chin. 

”Up,” John commanded. Sherlock swiftly rose to his full height, squaring his shoulders and raising his chin defiantly. John reached out with both hands to grasp Sherlock around his hips, making sure to brush his fingertips over the graveyard of past cuts inside the left hipbone as he maneuvered Sherlock to stand in front of the bathroom mirror. It had the effect he had hoped for as Sherlock’s breath stuttered in sharply as his hands came to rest on either side of the sink. John pressed his body in close behind Sherlock’s, tugging his pants down just enough to fully expose the grouping of scars. The newest one was still scabbed over in an angry red line. A guilty sort of fascination showed on Sherlock’s face as he stared at that spot in the mirror. 

John wrapped his arms loosely around Sherlock’s waist, fingers enjoying the sensation of his detective’s bare skin. “Sherlock,” he began with gentle confidence, “You showed strength today. You had the opportunity to add to that little collection,” John had to swallow loudly as he had upset himself with his own flippancy, “but you didn’t. Now I have to ask out of a sense of duty, did you cut yourself anywhere else? Hurt yourself another way?” 

Sherlock’s gaze lifted from his body’s reflection to meet John’s in the mirror before he answered, “No, John.” Underneath the thread of defensiveness, John was thrilled to hear just the faintest hint of awed pride. 

Satisfied, he nodded and whispered, “I believe you,” before swinging the belt up and across Sherlock’s arse at a velocity that while not outright painful certainly would feel shocking. Sherlock’s eyes snapped closed and his mouth set into a thin line, but otherwise didn’t respond. Even his fingers remained arched gently over the countertop instead of clawed against it, carefully not showing distress. John swung the belt three more times in rapid succession, a little harder each time. The loud sounds, a cross between a smack and a thud, filled the small bathroom, and was a bit overwhelming if John was perfectly honest with himself. Sherlock still didn’t respond. 

”Sherlock,” John intoned in a stern voice, “Open your eyes.” When his order was followed, he clarified, “Look at yourself, Sherlock. You’re being hit with a belt, and you’re trying not to show pain. You do know that’s ridiculous, don’t you?” He brought the belt hard against Sherlock’s arse again, watching in the mirror as his eyes flinched but stayed open. “I know that this hurts, Sherlock, I’m causing that on purpose. You don’t have to put on a brave face for me, I know what you’re feeling! I’m the one doing it to you, remember?” 

John struck Sherlock again, and this time he was rewarded with a muffled grunt. “Say it, Sherlock. Say it hurts.” John struck again, purposefully over the same spot he’d just visited. 

”Yes, John!” Sherlock burst out, sounding angry. “Obviously it hurts, fuck!” 

John struck just under the last spot, bordering on the tops of Sherlock’s thighs. “Say it again.” 

“Ahh,” Sherlock moaned, sounding frustrated, “It hurts, John.” Sherlock’s eyes had moved to John’s face reflected in the mirror, and there was a naked sort of pleading in them. All at once he seemed to be encouraging John, and asking for encouragement in return. He wanted to be allowed to acknowledge things, he wanted to be praised for it instead of rejected. John read his expression in a moment and nodded curtly to Sherlock’s reflection.

”Look back at yourself,” He ordered. “And now say, I am allowed to feel pain.” 

”I…” Sherlock hesitated, then gasped as John struck him again. He locked eyes with his reflection, seeming to issue a challenge to himself as he blurted out, “I am allowed to feel pain.” He quickly averted his eyes from his own gaze, as if afraid of finding judgement there. John shifted his stance behind Sherlock, caressing the belt up and down his bare back for a moment. 

”Good, Sherlock, good,” John soothed, “Now, are you ready for more?” 

Sherlock couldn’t have known what exactly he was agreeing to, but in a show of trust toward John, he nodded once. Almost immediately, John turned the bathroom light on, purposefully leaving Sherlock no shadows to hide in. Sherlock’s eyes widened and his breathing quickened, but when he locked eyes with John in the mirror, he seemed to still. John suspected he knew what Sherlock saw there, which was the pride and a stern kind of love that was encouraging John through this process of causing pain. After a few heartbeats, Sherlock once again nodded to John. 

John swung the belt again, noting with an odd pride that he had landed a particularly solid hit. A soft cry fell from Sherlock’s lips, even as he made eye contact with himself in the mirror. “Say, I am allowed to feel frustration,” John ordered as he delivered the next blow, not quite as hard. 

”I am allowed to feel frustration.” 

”Good. Now, expecting myself to feel nothing is harmful to myself and others.” 

”John-“ The protest was interrupted by a whimper as the belt landed again. “Expecting myself to feel nothing is harmful.” Another blow, again repeating where it had just been. Sherlock’s voice began to waiver, but his eye contact with his reflection had remained firm and challenging despite the tears beginning to form. He finished dutifully, “To myself and others.” 

”Good, dearest, good,” John kissed Sherlock’s temple briefly, a reward for a difficult process. He decided to press on just a bit more. “Now say,” he paused as he delivered a swat, just barely hard enough to ensure Sherlock’s complete attention, “I have more to give people than just my detective skills.” 

Sherlock’s face twisted as though he had been punched in the gut. To his credit, he took in a deep breath and started, “I-“ before his voice broke and his head sagged abruptly between his shoulders, hair falling down to hide his face. “John.” The tone of his voice was mournful, conveying an apology. 

”Shh,” John again moved in close behind him, dropping the belt carelessly to the floor. He moved his palms down Sherlock’s chest, bringing his back to rest against John’s cheek. John tried to convey through the gentle pressure the pride he felt at Sherlock’s progress just this evening. Sherlock’s ribcage jerked erratically as he tried not to sob. “Sherlock, you did so well,” he promised, gently stroking one hand up and down his bare side. The other hand remained as a steady pressure over Sherlock’s racing heart. 

”Knowing your own boundaries, even as they change, is so important.” John slowly moved his hands down to Sherlock’s hips once more, guiding him to turn and face John. Sherlock’s eyes were open and vulnerable, and shining trails down his cheeks betrayed him. John took that darling face between his hands again and drew Sherlock down for a kiss. It was the gentlest kiss that John could deliver, trying to communicate with the slow, soft pressure what tenderness and care was reserved just for him, if only he would allow it. Sherlock returned the kiss with a tight sort of desperation, making a sad sound against John’s lips before schooling himself into a more sedate pace. 

John broke the kiss and smiled into Sherlock’s face reassuringly as he moved away. Going into doctor mode, he instructed, “Now Sherlock, I want you to shower briefly. I’ll stay in the room with you, don’t worry. I’m going to start the water a bit cool at first, to reduce inflammation in your muscles. You were sitting still for who knows how long, I’m sure your body hates you right about now.” He had kept his tone light, but realized that he was prattling on a bit just to fill the silence. “Ahem, rather…cool at first, then warm to relax, alright? Doctor’s orders.” 

Sherlock nodded and silently let John adjust the water temperature, then undress Sherlock with a medical sort of detachment. Now was not the time for trying to ignite passion (not before Sherlock had recuperated a bit, at least). After Sherlock threw one last glance at John before disappearing behind the shower curtain, John bent down to grab the belt from the floor, threading it back through the loops of his trousers and buckling it securely. He then sat down on the closed toilet seat and let himself relax, focusing only on the soothing sounds of the falling water and the subtle sounds of movement caused by his flat mate. 

Only one sound was different from the rest, spoken so softly that John wasn't sure if he was meant to hear it. 

"Thank you, John."


	3. Finally

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The smut we've all been waiting for

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We all know that John has a thing about danger, right? So there's a knife in this scene, but it's never used, I swear. It's just...ambiance, weirdly enough. Warning about that, though, just in case.

Sherlock didn’t even glance John’s way as he exited the shower. He remained silent as he toweled himself off, and John was happy to follow suit. Sherlock’s body had lost most of the earlier tension, and his lips, while not smiling, were perfectly relaxed. That was fine by John. The point of this wasn’t for Sherlock to be happy all the time, as that would be as inhuman as no emotions at all. There was an underlying fear for John in all of this as well, that at some point, Sherlock would relapse but hide it from him. After all, Sherlock was a very convincing actor (Liar? In this context, they’re uncomfortably similar concepts…) and he wasn’t so confident as to think Sherlock couldn’t fool him. 

John reached out and took Sherlock’s larger hand in his own, and led the still-naked man into the living room where he wrapped him in a blanket they kept on the couch. He sat down first, then gently pulled and fussed until Sherlock was seated next to him, wrapped in the blanket and with his head very slightly resting on John’s shoulder. The silence was only broken when John flipped on the telly and found the trivia game show they usually watched at this time. Sherlock’s breathing remained steady and calm. The heat between their bodies grew slowly, and they both relaxed into it. 

After about two minutes, John snuck his arm along the top of the couch behind Sherlock, but he didn’t push any more than that. He suspected that the other man was very raw, and needed a brief vacation from feelings. That was fine, John very much understood that need. He focused on relaxing his own mind as well, letting the inane chatter of the game show host soothe him. John even began to gently snort laughter out of his nose at particularly witty remarks, and suspected that he heard Sherlock do so a split-second before he did, just once. Brilliant bastard, of course he would get the joke before John did. 

Eight more minutes went by before Sherlock called out an answer in annoyance when the contestant seemed stuck. John chuckled at the sudden but dear interruption, and unconsciously gave the detective’s damp hair a few pets. He realized what he was doing and paused for a moment, taking in Sherlock’s reaction to the physical affection, but if anything, the head on his shoulder leaned a little harder. John smiled to himself and continued the gentle stroking. The curls were starting to dry and become defined at this point, and he was careful not to break their spirals. It reminded John of that first night in the bathroom. He had stroked Sherlock’s hair then, too, and hadn’t they both seemed to enjoy it then, too? John tucked that bit of information away, savoring the silky, bouncy feeling of the curls as he initiated verbal contact. 

“Sherlock,” John ventured, “How are you feeling?” 

“Hmm,” Sherlock rumbled, the vibrations traveling into John’s chest. It was at once very comforting and deeply arousing…John snapped out of that line of thought, trying to concentrate only on Sherlock’s answer: “Deeply tired, I suppose. Calm. And also like I’m recovering from some sort of illness. It should be terrible, but it just…is.” 

Pride swelled up inside of John before he could temper it, reminding himself to be very gentle with these beginning stages. Relapse was a very real possibility, and John didn’t want to set either of them up for failure. “Sherlock, that’s a good sign, that’s the proper way of feeling emotions and then letting them go. I don’t mean to sound condescending-“ Alright, but it was a bit like giving him a taste of his own medicine, wasn’t it- “but I do want to stress that this is what’s healthy and normal. You feel them, you learn from them, and then you let them float off.” 

Sherlock snorted but didn’t vocalize any outright rejection of the process. Getting the hint, John let silence fall between them once more, and switched from petting Sherlock’s hair to massaging his scalp with his fingertips. He made sure to dig in with the pads of his fingers just enough to get that firm, insistent pressure that was a point of pride for John. Nobody had ever been left wanting from a head massage from Doctor Watson. The tiniest noise of pleased surprise drifted up from Sherlock. John knew that with all those thoughts constantly whirling around under that scalp, the massage would prove to be intoxicating. It wasn’t long before moans began escaping from Sherlock’s lips, soft but deep and rumbling. 

Between the bodily vibrations and the noises coming from Sherlock, John couldn’t help but to shift his body, just slightly. The stirrings he had been ignoring all night had strengthened. Every moan from his…oh hell, at least in his own mind, John could say boyfriend, couldn’t he? Every moan from his boyfriend sent blood rushing to his groin. And really, what was the harm of just letting the reaction happen? Sherlock seemed to be in a better place mentally, and a bodily reaction didn’t even mean that anything should happen. Just…that it was an option. A very attractive option. 

Maybe (definitely) trying to see what other noises he could evoke, John moved his fingers down to Sherlock’s neck, seeking out the knots he would certainly find there. As he kneaded gently, Sherlock’s moan did increase in frequency and volume, and John half-suspected that he was playing along. And what if he was? They were two adults in a…a relationship of some sort, and they seemed to be hinting at the same progression. But Sherlock had been through a lot this night, and John did wonder, would it be taking advantage if he took control tonight in a sexual way as well? He wasn’t sure, and didn’t want to risk it. Damn. 

As if he had been listening to John’s inner monologue (Which would be impossible, wouldn’t it??) Sherlock sat up suddenly and twisted enough to look John in the eyes. He looked impatient. “This is stupid,” he snapped, “We’re both aroused, and we both want this to lead to a sexual encounter, am I right?” 

Startled, John could only blink and nod. 

Sherlock stood up and let the blanket fall to the floor, suddenly nude and radiating confidence. It was a stark contrast from the silent form who had been cocooned in the blanket just minutes before, and honestly, it was shockingly attractive. The sudden rush of blood to John’s cock staggered him for a moment before he realized that Sherlock had grabbed his hand. Sherlock pulled his captive behind him, striding purposefully toward his own bedroom, and John was bemusedly content to let himself be dragged. 

As soon as they had cleared the threshold, Sherlock slammed the door shut and crowded John against it with such force that the back of John’s head bounced off the door. He laughed softly in surprise but embraced the situation he found himself in, melting into the kisses that Sherlock pressed urgently into his lips. The faint throb from the back of his head felt like a trophy, earned and cherished. It was all John could do to return the kisses as Sherlock undressed him with a speed and precision that suggested that he had been forming a battle plan while they had been on the couch. John smiled against those dear lips. Brilliant. 

When he saw an opportunity to, he darted a hand behind Sherlock to tweak the delicate skin he had laid into earlier, causing a sharp gasp before his hand was smacked in reprimand. John’s hand stung, another trophy. Any true annoyance conveyed by the smack was betrayed by the smile that John saw on Sherlock’s face as the detective maneuvered him around and shoved him down to land flat on the bed. 

John expected Sherlock to continue his frenzied pace and perhaps launch himself on top of John (oh, please), but Sherlock just stood there, looking at him…studying him? It made John uneasy, his mind flipping through physical features on his own body that he’d rather not have studied, thank you very much. He just laid on the bed, watching Sherlock watch him. It seemed like those eyes scanned over every inch of him at least twice before John’s nerve broke. He threw one hand up and if the “Sherlock!” that flew from his mouth sounded like a whine, it was Sherlock’s fault. 

“Honestly, John,” Sherlock tutted while smiling like a satiated predator, “Surely I get to savor this.” 

John felt his cock bob pleasantly at the praise, watching Sherlock’s eyes hone in on the movement. Those eyes flared back up with an intent sort of heat. (Oh, yes.) John relaxed back onto the bed and tucked his hands behind his head. The position just so happened to engage his biceps and pecs nicely, and wasn’t this what muscles were for, anyway? To be flexed, and used. And to tempt one’s boyfriend. 

As Sherlock slowly moved toward the bed, seemingly unaware of his own half-hard cock, he asked John, “What sorts of things are you into, sexually? I’d like some sort of base knowledge to work with.” 

Striving for casual, John shrugged, ignoring the hammering in his chest. “I’m a man of simple needs, really. A blow job here or there, some dirty talk…” He trailed off as he caught Sherlock’s expression. It looked like a reprimand. 

“John,” Oh shit, that sounded like he was in trouble. “After all that you’ve learned about me recently, I would hope that you feel comfortable in asking for what you really like. My asking was really a formality, I don’t see why you couldn’t just ask for an element of danger.” His voice had been so flippant. John was fucking baffled. Or…maybe he wasn’t. Huh. The clarity sort of seeped over John, feeling truer than words ever could. Sherlock was peering into his eyes, but John didn’t have an answer beyond biting his lower lip and meeting that gaze. 

Sherlock simply nodded and walked over to his dresser, opening an ornate box on top of it. He pulled out a folding knife and opened it, revealing that the entire weapon was matte black. Practically invisible in low enough light. It wasn’t very long, but it looked sharp, and all in all it was a very nasty little weapon. Also, highly illegal. A subtle, unsettling feeling was growing in John’s stomach, and his cock softened just a bit. Sherlock placed the opened knife on the dresser in plain sight, and then climbed into the bed to join John. 

In answer to John’s questioning look, he drawled, “It’s out of my reach, and you’d know if I made a move for it, which I won’t be doing. All that will happen is that you’ll know it’s there.” He didn’t elaborate, and the look on his face seemed to imply that he was waiting for John to catch up. 

John believed Sherlock when he said that nothing would come of the knife. He took a deep breath and looked into himself, taking stock of his mental and physical symptoms. The knife had certainly heightened his awareness of everything around him, every detailed sharpened to an almost-uncomfortable clarity. His body had tensed up as it readied a defense, and as he forced his muscles to relax, there was a special ‘playing with fire’ sort of rush to it. John knew that by relaxing, he was slowing his potential reaction time should anything happen with the knife. But he trusted Sherlock, and the knife was on the other side of the room anyway. He felt himself slip into that thick, addicting, heady arousal that can come from facing danger head on. 

“Fuuuuck.” John hadn’t intended for that to slip out, but it was an honest reaction at least. This could easily become too much, too overwhelming. The soldier aspects of himself were not generally ones he wanted to bring into his romantic encounters, and especially not his sex life. Those were…separate. That wasn’t the person he was currently, away from active duty. 

But then again, it was, wasn’t it? This rush from danger had served him well on front lines, but it felt just as real and right in this environment. As long as Sherlock didn’t push him too far, maybe this could work. Maybe…maybe this could be fun. John’s heart was still beating harder than usual, or perhaps he was just more aware of it. Regardless, John decided to embrace it. A small, dangerous smile spread across his face as he nodded to Sherlock. 


	4. Chapter 4

One long-fingered hand grasped John’s chin delicately, and he let Sherlock move his head to the side until he was looking at the knife, still across the room on the dresser. When a smaller rush of adrenaline arrived, John was ready for it, riding it into that heightened state with more excitement than he had expected. Okay…This was good. This was really good. His cock was suddenly full again, more so than before. Fucking Sherlock…Sometimes it paid off to have a boyfriend who can (not actually) read your mind. 

Sherlock had let go of his chin and moved down John’s body, not touching but oh-so close to skin on skin contact. The heat from their bodies mingled, and still there was no contact. It was instantly maddening. Only when John took his gaze from the knife and looked down at Sherlock who was (Ohhh God) on all fours between John’s legs, only then did Sherlock smoothly lower his lips to kiss the head of John’s dick. 

“Fuuuuck, Sherlock…” John was overwhelmed by sensation for a moment, his entire world narrowed to just that light touch. Then Sherlock grazed his lips back and forth, spreading the slick precome. His lips became shiny with it, which looked absolutely sinful. John closed his eyes to properly burn that image forever into his memory. Two weeks ago, this would have been impossible to imagine. Now, impossible to forget. John felt Sherlock’s mouth slowly, so slowly, slide over him, taking him in. John’s breath stuttered in. Fuck. 

He opened his eyes and drank in what was before him: Sherlock with his own eyes closed, mouth closed tenderly around John as he moved slowly up and down his length, tongue soothing wetly in the dreamiest way. He was still on all fours, ass now presented to the air. Sherlock was supporting his body weight with only one hand now, the other wrapped around his cock and moving languidly. It seemed to be more of a tease than a means to an end, and John was fascinated by it. Sherlock, who was usually so closed off and impersonal…John had honestly never even imagined that Sherlock touched himself. But here he was, treating himself like a natural, sexual human being, and he was letting John witness this thing that felt so taboo. That John should find himself in the front row at such a show…and with audience participation, no less. There were no words. 

“Fuuuuuuuuuuuck.” Okay, maybe one word. And that wasn’t enough, was it? Sherlock’s eyes opened and he looked up at John, not faltering in any of his movements. “Sherlock…” How could he even express how he was feeling? John knew there was a good chance that Sherlock already knew everything he could be thinking, but that wasn’t fair to rely on. John had to be vulnerable and actually verbalize what Sherlock needed to hear. At the end of the day, he couldn’t actually read minds. 

“Sherlock,” he started again, “You’re…you’re incredible.” There was a huff of laughter around his cock, and John squirmed before he went on, “No, I mean it. You- ahhh, God…You pay enough attention to get everything, ahh, perfect. I don’t even…Fuck, Sherlock, FUCK, that feels amazing. You look amazing, you’re amazing…” The words tumbled from his lips as he tried not to buck too wildly, trying to just let Sherlock do what he wanted without interference. He didn’t get a verbal response, but Sherlock’s eyes crinkled a bit before closing again in concentration. John lost himself in the sensations, and he vaguely hoped his moans conveyed to Sherlock what his words had tried to.

There was no way of telling how much longer that went on- some matter of minutes- before John felt that urgent warning from his body. “Sherlock!-“ he choked out, and he felt Sherlock nod. John hoped that meant what he thought it did, because the next moment he was being ripped open by his orgasm, aware only of his whole body tensing and the powerful pulsing of his release. He became aware of the feeling of Sherlock’s throat working to swallow everything, and a wrecked moan forced its way out of his throat before he knew what was happening. Muscles finally relaxing, the powerful pulses slowed and weakened. John struggled to open his eyes and couldn’t remember when he had shut them. A huge, ragged breath dragged its way into his lungs, and he realized that even his breathing had stopped. “Oh God, Sherlock…”

He felt the warmth of Sherlock’s mouth leave his body, replaced by rough, warm breaths. John lifted his head to see Sherlock’s face, pinched a bit in concentration, about three inches from his too-sensitive skin. Sherlock had picked up the pace on his own body, and his breath came out even rougher. Maybe a little pained. Fucking Jesus fucking Christ…Watching the pace become punishing, John had the presence of mind to worry if Sherlock was going too hard and too fast with no lube. 

It was dashed from his mind, however, as Sherlock’s face snapped up and he demanded, “Tissue.” 

John’s exhausted body sprang to action, his arm already reaching for the tissue box next to the bed before his mind could decipher what Sherlock had said. He snatched a tissue and delivered it just in time before Sherlock’s hand and head whipped back down violently. The detective groaned as his whole body hunched in on itself, shuddering. John watched, fascinated, as he spiked the tissue into the bin next to the bed, and then collapsed across John’s legs as if his strings had been cut. His cheek rested on John’s thigh, harsh breaths stirring the sparse leg hair. 

The two men stayed like that for a few precious minutes, just breathing and existing and letting the real world creep slowly back in. John began stroking Sherlock’s hair again, earning a content-sounding hum as Sherlock leaned into the sensation. 

John knew that the afterglow had to come to an end sometime, but he was still a bit disappointed when Sherlock drew a breath in, then spoke in a voice very close to normal. 

“John.” 

“Hmm?” 

Sherlock sighed. “What happens when this situation arises in the field? We can’t just drop everything and lock ourselves in a closet for a quick flog and shag session, let alone a full therapy session.” 

“One,” John retorted, “I am not your therapist. I’m…I’m just your boyfriend.” There, he said it. Either Sherlock would correct him or he wouldn’t, but at least he said it. “And two, I need to know…do you reach…that point, in the field? Or do you always wait until you’ve come home?” 

The silence he got in response said everything, but John had to be sure. “Sherlock.” 

“I have hurt myself in the field.” The tone was terse, but John didn’t take it personally. He knew it was a difficult thing to say out loud. Fuck, though, to think that Sherlock had ever been in such pain that he couldn’t even wait for the relative privacy of his own home…Had John been with him on these occasions? Had he missed it? Fuck. John’s heart ached intensely. 

“Alright. Well, I agree that this sort of thing won’t work in the field. We’ll work out some other protocol, yeah? I’m not sure what it will be yet, but I’ll be there with you. All you need to do is clue me in, and we’ll face it then and there, together. I promise.” 

Sherlock shifted his head to properly look up into John’s face. The look seemed to communicate that John didn’t realize what he was asking for. John was quite confident that he did. Sherlock was only trying to convince himself that surely, John couldn’t see that clearly into his soul. Fine, let Sherlock have that measure of comfort. For now. He used the hand that had been petting his head to hook under his arm, gently pulling until Sherlock took the hint. 

John didn’t expect to feel so dwarfed by the long body that climbed up over his, long limbs draping across and around him. Sherlock’s cheek found a new home against John’s chest. Feeling a little silly, John dropped a kiss to the top of his head. So what if he felt a little small? He also felt cherished, and protected. 

”You’re my boyfriend?” 

John’s heart stopped for a hard moment before it continued, just a bit fast. “Well, yes, aren’t I?” 

”Hmm. Yes. You are… As am I.” 


End file.
